Hush, Little Baby, Don't you Cry
by EnamoredWithSherlolly
Summary: Prompt from Tumblr: Molly had to go away for something for a while, and John isn't spending as much time with him, so Sjerlock's freaking out and seeing Molly everywhere.


**This one was actually pretty hard to write (although I think it's my best piece so far yay), but it's a little darker than usual. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy! **

* * *

"Stop it."

"What?" Lestrade stared strangely at the man muttering to himself.

"She won't stop talking to me," Sherlock growled, his little lens whipping back and forth through the air, catching minute details of the woman's demise. She lay there face up, mouth opened in a grotesque 'o.'

"Denise Richards?" Lestrade questioned hesitantly, wondering not for the first time if the man in front of him was truly bonkers and was in fact getting worse. His hand strayed to the phone in his pocket.

"Don't be ridiculous, Gavin, Molly. Molly Hooper is talking to me about the most ridiculous things, and calling the psych ward won't help you solve this murder."

His hand stilled in his pocket.

"Molly?" he questioned.

* * *

"Are you dull? Something missing? _Molly_, yes, I said Molly!" Sherlock vehemently shot back at him, slipping his magnifying glass into his pocket. "Barely a four, clean inside of the ring, dirty outside indicates affair, red tip of her tongue probably grape wine or something of the like. Anyhow, poisoned by her husband, found out because," he grabbed a crumple little sheet of paper from his pocket and stuffed it into Lestrade's hands, "she wasn't being very discreet. Terribly remiss of her. Shut up, Molly, I know that," he hissed.

Lestrade ignored him. A ticket to the opera with one Mr. Don Birch. Not discreet indeed.

He lifted his head to thank Sherlock, but he was already gone.

* * *

"No, I don't need your help."

Mrs. Hudson stilled, the vacuum in her hand still roaring. "What did you say, dear?"

Sherlock's eyes darted toward her. "Nothing."

"Come to think of it, you're kind of lonely recently, aren't you? What with John away on a trip with Mary. Why don't you find Molly to help you with your cases? You two work so well together," she sighed happily, giggling to herself.

Sherlock jumped up from his chair.

"No need, she already does," he shouted back over his shoulder as he locked himself in his room, leaving Mrs. Hudson perplexed. That poor dear hadn't dropped by in nearly a month, so what was Sherlock blathering on about?

In his room, Sherlock stuffed his face in his pillow, gritting his teeth.

"Go away, Molly."

_I thought you said I counted?_

"Not now. I need to work, my brain is rotting, and you're everywhere." He waved his hands in the air, attempting to flick her away.

_I can help you with your cases. I noticed her tongue this morning, remember?_

"Simple. I would have gotten that myself. Besides, you're me. Thus, I did get it myself."

_Why won't you visit me? I'm lonely in the morgue all by myself. What if another Jim appears?_

"Not. My. Problem."

Her voice suddenly morphed into an Irish lilt.

_But that's it, isn't it? The Final Problem. She loves me far more than she'll ever care for you._

"That's ridiculous."

_We slept together. You're nothing. Nothing at all._

"She's in love with me. She's IN LOVE WITH ME."

_I'm laughing, I'm crying, Sherlock is dying._

"LEAVE. ME. ALONE!" he shouted, his breath ragged. His hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into the covers.

"Uhhhhh, is this a bad time?"

Sherlock jumped off the bed, stumbling a little, turning to see John staring at him strangely from the doorway.

"John!" Sherlock gasped, getting up from his bed, almost stumbling. He grabbed John's shoulders. "Where's Molly? Where's Molly?" He could barely choke out the words.

"Uh, uh, at her apartment?" He placed a steady hand on Sherlock's shoulder and another at his neck, trying to feel his pulse. Pupils dilated, forehead covered in sweat. He looked high.

But Sherlock tore away from him, stopping only long enough to grab his coat before tearing out of the flat, a low keening sound coming from his throat.

* * *

"Molly! Molly! MOLLY!" Sherlock pounded on the door to her flat, ignoring the landlady's screeches of protest. He had been here for the past five minutes, banging at the door in a frenzied panic, his knuckles raw, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't he couldn't he couldn't.

The door finally clicked open. Molly peered out, wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping.

"Sherlock, I was in the shower," she complained before Sherlock barreled his way into her flat, racing from room to room, looking under her bed and behind her couch, his eyes wide. His entire body was shaking.

"What's wrong?" She walked toward him when he finally stood still, one hand holding up her towel and the other reaching for his shoulder. He turned toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her.

"Where's Moriarty? Where is he? _Where are you hiding him? Where?_"

She quickly stretched onto her tiptoes, feeling his forehead with the back of her hand. No fever.

"Sherlock," she said calmly, her hand gently tugging on his arm and leading him to her couch, pressuring him to sit down. He collapsed, his hands covering his face, fingers shaking uncontrollably.

She slowly sat down beside him, her hand stroking his hair.

"What's wrong?" she repeated again, her voice more insistent this time.

"Moriarty," he choked out, his voice hoarse. "Moriarty."

She scooted closer to him, wrapping her arms around his frail form. She took his head between her hands, turning his head to face her, her eyes filling with compassion upon seeing his unfocused eyes darting everywhere in panic.

"Listen to me. He's dead. He's not coming back." She told him, her voice firm and steady. "He's gone."

His eyes began to focus, and she could see rationality returning, only if barely. He stared at her with a form of reverence, his eyes wide. She could suddenly see him as a child, the way she imagined Mycroft saw him.

"Are you sure?" He leaned closer, his hands clinging to her arms, nails digging into her skin. She bit her lip, holding back a cry of pain.

"Of course," she replied, her voice as smooth and steady as she could manage, hand smoothing a stray curl away from his face. "I would never lie to you."

He relaxed against her, his head falling into her lap, his breathing slowing.

"You promise?"

She smiled down at him, her gaze soft. His head became heavier, his arm slipping off the couch, fingers grazing the soft carpet.

"I promise."

_Hush, little Sherlock, don't say a word  
Molly's gonna make sure you don't get hurt  
If Moriarty comes back to make you cry  
Molly's gonna make sure you won't ever die_


End file.
